


even the stars are not immortal

by iscoalarcon



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, im dead inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iscoalarcon/pseuds/iscoalarcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was looking at the stars and you were looking at him and this was how it always was and how it always would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even the stars are not immortal

**Author's Note:**

> because of the tweet  
> ((disclaimer: i don't own xabi or stevie))

There are things, memories and moments, that you do not want to forget (you don’t think you can forget them, even if you tried). He is in most of them and he is in this one and he will be in the next and the next and the next. This is how it is and how it always will be and you don’t know whether or not that’s a good thing; you don’t know how long you can ignore the ache in your chest that blossoms whenever you think about him. These memories and moments, you hide them in the folds of your heart. It goes like this.

It’s 10:34 PM and you’re looking at him when you should be looking at the stars. (But aren’t they the same thing? Doesn’t he shine as bright as any constellation?)

_“Stevie,” he had said, a smile curving the ends of his mouth up (you were so fucked). “Let’s, ah, how do you say it? Let’s watch the stars- stargaze, no?”_

And you had said yes because you could never say no to him and here you were, two grown men laying on top of a hotel room in some part of France, watching the night sky and drinking in the sounds of the city.

You had turned your head to the side a while ago, opened your mouth as if you had something to say, but you had immediately closed it; your witty remark vanished from your brain as you became enraptured by the slow and delicate, yet rugged and sharpened, outline of his face. The stars, the city lights, illuminated his features and he looked so peaceful, so soft, right at that very moment. You wished you had a camera with you or your phone or anything to capture the way he looked. You wanted this image of him imprinted on the back of your eyelids as you fell asleep every night; you wanted to remember him like this forever, so young and full of life; you wanted, you wanted, you wanted.

“What is it?” he asked, sensing your eyes on him. “I’ve got something on my face?” the corners of his mouth lifted gently as he turned to look at you, his brown eyes teasing and warm.

You cleared your throat and fought the urge to reach out and touch those cheekbones that were crafted by god himself.

“No,” you replied, facing towards the night sky again, connecting stars together and mapping out constellations you didn’t know the names of. “Nothing on your face.”

“Then why were you staring?” he questioned and his eyes were like heavy weights on your chest and you couldn’t breathe when he looked at you like this.

You shrugged, nonchalantly. You were the picture of indifference (you hoped). “I dunno. Zoned out for a bit, I guess. My eyes landed on your ugly mug and I was afraid that if I looked away, you’d turn me into stone like you were Medusa or some other shite.”

He laughed softly and the sound wrapped around your brain and squeezed your heart painfully.

He brushed his hand against yours ever-so-slightly and this was it, this was your end, because no matter how many times he touched you, no matter where he touched you, no matter how fleeting or lingering the touch, it always sent a shock to your heart.

“You see that group of stars there, yes?” he pointed up to the sky and you squinted, trying to see what he saw.

“I see a lot of stars, mate. Which ones are you talking about?”

“Those ones, right there. They form an eagle almost, you see?”

You shook your head.

He reached over and grabbed your chin, softly, yet firmly, and directed your gaze towards the constellation. Your eyes landed on what might be an eagle (if you tilted your head and squinted and over-thought the imaginary lines that connected the stars) and you smiled.

“I see it!” you exclaimed happily, turning to grin at him.

He laughed again and you wished you could capture that sound in a bottle and listen to it whenever you were sad.

“That’s Aquila, the eagle constellation. This eagle carried Zeus’ thunderbolts. It was fast and strong and loyal. Much like you, if you want to extend this,” he waved his hand, searching for the right word. “Metaphor.” his tongue curled around the ‘r’ and you thought that you were maybe just a little bit in love.

“You ol’ sap,” you pushed his shoulder, gently, teasing. “Don’t let the lads hear you talking like this. They’ll rip you a new one.”

He turned his head back to the sky. “I only get deep with you, Stevie. Everyone else, they don’t understand or care. You, you follow my thoughts and listen well. On the pitch and off. It’s,” he hesitated. “it’s nice to know that you always understand what I’m trying to say even if I don’t have the right words.”

You looked at him and you realized that no star in the sky could outshine him and no constellation would provide an adequate enough metaphor for how wonderful he is and no word or sentence or line of poetry could accurately describe the way you felt about him (the way you would always feel about him).

You thought that you could write books about him (if you weren’t such a shite writer) and the way he smiled at you like this. You could go on and on about the way he looked right now, moonlight washing over his features and making him look immortal. You would follow him into battle, you would fight at his side, you would give him the world (if it was yours to give).

“We should go back inside,” you said, voice hoarse. “It’s getting late.”

“Yes, we should.” he replied. Neither of you moved.

He was looking at the stars and you were looking at him and this was how it always was and how it always would be.    

 

**Author's Note:**

> MY MATE. MY HERO.


End file.
